Sons of the Silent Age
by Timesprite
Summary: Spike, Vicious, and how it all began. A look at the days of the Red Dragon.
1. The Shape of Things to Come

**Disclaimer:** Cowboy Bebop isn't mine, which should be fairly obvious.  
**A/N:** This is going to be a whole lot of short pieces, probably with a lot of narrative-only portions. Hang in there with me, 'kay? 

**Sons of the Silent Age**

* * *

Squabbles in the street. Mao was used to seeing them... there were more than a few homeless children in Tharsis, prowling together in cruel packs like half-starved dogs. Little gangs here and there that the syndicates all kept eyes on. They made for good recruitment.

He didn't usually stop to watch. He was a busy man, had things to do. But this scuffle seemed particularly violent, particularly cruel, one lone boy backed into a corner, tall and skinny and so damned pale you could nearly see the crumbling brickwork of the alley walls right through him. The pack had closed in, circling, jeering like schoolyard bullies, taunts that blended into one garbled noise. What really held his attention, though, was the lone boy's demeanor, the way he wasn't cowed, shoulders set straight and level, eyes staring forward as though the rest of the unruly mob wasn't even there. Serene.

He almost missed it. Busy admiring the boy's poise, he almost missed it when one long-fingered hand gripped the brickwork behind him and then swung out, lightning fast, smashing a chunk of crumbling masonry into the head of his nearest opponent, going down in a tumble of limbs and shrieks and one low feral growl, arm swinging over and over until blood coated the pale skin and the other boys, freed of their momentary paralysis, managed to drag their friend away.

He glanced away momentarily, and when he looked back, the pale-haired kid was gone. He looked to one of the remaining boys, busy trying to haul their bloodied compatriot up off the pavement. "Who was that?"

"Vicious," the boy spat out.

It wasn't a name. Not really. But it was what Mao called him when he finally tracked the boy down, and in all the years that followed, he was never offered an alternative.


	2. In the Rough

**Disclaimer:** Cowboy Bebop isn't mine, which should be fairly obvious. 

**Sons of the Silent Age**

* * *

It was another four years before he discovered the other one, seventeen and hustling pool in back ally dives. Getting into fights and earning himself a reputation as a sarcastic bastard with one hell of a punch. This one came with a name--Spike Spiegel--and a past, though he didn't talk much about it. When Mao had extended his offer--one of food and shelter in exchange for all the trouble he could ever desire, in exchange for the small service of befriending his 'son'--the lanky teen had given him a look, stretched his neck in a bone-popping way, and shrugged. Sure, why not?

Though they were of an age, the two boys could not have been more different. Spiked talked too much, drowning out Vicious' calculated silence. Preferred to fight with his fists, in counter to the sword which Vicious had come to favor over all other things.

Over the years, the other syndicate meant had learned to give the pale youth a wide berth. His name was not underserved, after all, and after the last round of good-intentioned teasing had lead to an unfortunate amputation, they'd given up on trying to engage him in anything other than official business. If rumors of the other boy's violence had reached Spike's ears, he paid them no heed, poking and jabbing, trying to get a rise out of his silent cohort.

For the most part, Vicious seemed to ignore it, but for the first time in four years, Mao thought he saw that icy facade begin to thaw. Like spring coming to Callisto, it was nothing to boast about, but it was more than he himself had managed to accomplish. Mao could turn him into a very efficient killer, but Spike... Spike might just have held a chance of turning him into something human.

The younger syndicate members, of course, loved Spike. The kid was reckless, sometimes dumb as a post, but he had such spirit you could practically see it on him, like a glow.


	3. Comedown

**Disclaimer:** Cowboy Bebop isn't mine, which should be fairly obvious. 

**Sons of the Silent Age**

* * *

For awhile, it was almost ideal. Spike pulled the humanity out of his friend inch by stubborn inch, and the syndicate showed him the best it had to offer. There was always something going on, some back room party, enough action to keep the dark-haired youth with soulful eyes counting his blessings.

And then they were eighteen, and Mao deemed them boys no longer. They were men, men of the syndicate, and it was high time they got their hands dirty. That Vicious had killed before wasn't in question, but the worst Spike had done was put a few poor bastards in the hospital, and the first time his Jericho cut someone down, he spent three days shaking.

Mao felt bad, of course, but this was life in the syndicate. If the kid had thought it was going to be nothing but booze and women endlessly, well, he knew better now. This was what it meant to be a Red Dragon.

Vicious told him as much, or so Mao presumed, because it earned him a black eye and two fractured ribs. Spike walked away with three bones broken in his right hand and a hell of a bruise on his jaw, but he was better for it afterwards, the kill stopped haunting him.

And that was when Mao knew he'd done the right thing, putting the two of them together.


	4. Red Eyes and Tears

**Disclaimer:** Cowboy Bebop isn't mine, which should be fairly obvious.

**Sons of the Silent Age**

* * *

It was not entirely unlike being drunk. Not entirely unlike the one and only time he'd sampled the goods that the Red Dragon peddled about Mars and half a dozen other colonies. But not entirely like those feelings, either. His head hurt, but it didn't, the pain was abrupt and terrible and at the same time far, far away. Spike opened his eyes.

Eye. Singular. The other one was gone somewhere, wasn't it? He recalled that, vaguely. A dim lit room, white hot agony. It had probably been crushed under someone's boot heel. He fought back a ridiculous urge to laugh. There was a joke in there, somewhere. A big, cosmic joke.

"Don't worry." The rumble of Vicious' voice cut through the fog--deep, gravely, sounded ridiculous on someone barely twenty, Spike thought idly before realizing his thoughts were spiraling away from him. "They didn't damage that face of yours."

"My most valuable asset," he joked weakly. Strange to think part of him was gone. Part of him was dead.

"Mao already contacted someone. They can replace it, but you need to heal, first. I killed the bastards for you," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Of course he had, Spike thought. What else were friends for?


End file.
